And the memories of your childhood scar, Photographs, dimples and glasses, Recollection of the scent of your naked skin, And after shower hair, You should know and learn to forgive me, For the innocent things I do to you inside my mind…

To each eyes that you comfort, You mean something different. As if a thousand lives that you have lived, You could be anything to anyone. I wonder how you would like to be remembered. To me you are the sweet maiden, Who is busy writing my life on paper. Or are you a story I am living, Through your dove like eyes…

There are no bad memories that haunt me, No good memories to hold on too. Neither a giver of hope nor receiver of any. Neither the seeker of the first dawn nor the last. Neither the worshipper of number nor of any name. All I want is to be my own lover, Let me be my own first and the very last desire,

Please make me a part, Of all your innocent rituals in red, And then tie me up with your yellow knots, Until I am sober in my head…

I got some Herbs, I need some bones, From the graves of our past, Let’s burn some skeletons without soul, Let’s sniff some more gum and coal…

As I age half dead, without grace, The triumph of the pills and the bills, Shadow, my shadow, my widow, Breathe in, breathe in and breathe out, The signature of stigma as I vaporize in the sun, Into the clouds, my grave, and then rebirth,

Roselyn I want to do to you something dark, That only our shadows will remember in silence, Before we fade away along this, Silent side of the moss hidden road, That crawls lazily through the woods, And disappears along with the lamppost in the fog ahead…

Those French poetries in air, Are her whispers somewhere. The silence she breaks with her smile, And a thousand veils of sadness falls in my heart, With just a glimpse of her…

Like the wines in those cedar, She never ages an inch, For the time ages in place of her, And so the musk ever present in the garden…